


Il a choisi

by lesmisloony



Category: Mozart l'Opéra Rock - Mozart/Baguian & Guirao
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 08:54:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14516877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesmisloony/pseuds/lesmisloony
Summary: He was Salieri's perfect opposite.  Maybe that was what had drawn them together, like reverse ends of a magnet.  Maybe Stephanie, surrounded by chaos of his own making, had seen Salieri as an oasis of composed gravity.  It had been a surprise to both of them at first.





	Il a choisi

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yewgrove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yewgrove/gifts).



Salieri rolled onto his stomach, crossing his arms around a pillow and propping his chin on it.  What had been a lazy afternoon was faded now into a lazy evening, the sound of his slow breathing underscored only by the insistent purr of the scrappy cat that was curled up next to him and the rhythmic scratching of quill on parchment.  He had been lying on his back reading a book, but his arms had grown tired of holding it aloft an hour ago.  The third time he dropped the book onto his face, Salieri had given up on getting any more reading done.  For a while he had scratched the sides of the cat's face instead, noting with wry amusement that he could conduct the volume of the animal's purrs by moving his fingers ever so slightly, by hitting those spots the cat couldn't reach itself.  Like cat, like owner, Salieri had reflected with a smirk.

Now he let his gaze roam the rented room, lingering on piles of books with dog-eared pages, on stray pieces of parchment that had been crumpled in frustration, on articles of clothing that still lay where Salieri had thrown them a few hours ago.  When he was here, it all made sense.

He cleared his throat; the cat's golden eyes winked open at the unexpected noise.  "Can I ask you a question?" Salieri asked carefully.

On the other side of the room--which, given that it was the smallest bedchamber Salieri had ever stayed in, was barely more than an arm's length from the bed--Stephanie looked up from his work.  His easy smile was already spreading across his lips when their eyes met, and to Salieri's surprise he felt his cheeks growing warm.  Of course Gottlieb Stephanie wasn't afraid of a conversation that started so ominously.  He was the shrillest, most anxious man Salieri had ever met, true... but beneath all that, he wasn't afraid of anything.

He was Salieri's perfect opposite.  Maybe that was what had drawn them together, like reverse ends of a magnet.  Maybe Stephanie, surrounded by chaos of his own making, had seen Salieri as an oasis of composed gravity.  Maybe through the sounds of his own perpetual nervous giggle, he had been unable to ignore Salieri's low, dark chuckle.  It had been a surprise to both of them, that much was certain.  For the first few months of their acquaintance, Salieri remembered noting that he and this new librettist shared only a love of music and a disdain for Count Rosenberg, and he had assumed that that was all he needed to know about him.  And then their paths had crossed in the deserted palace gardens after that tedious reception, and for the first time in his life Salieri had been relieved to see Stephanie's unassailable grin.  Unassailable, that is, until Salieri had finished off his fourth glass of wine, seized the man by his lapels, and pulled him into a sloppy kiss in the middle of the speech Stephanie had been making about the many reasons why he found comfort in Salieri's music.

And yet for all his outward nervous energy, Salieri had quickly discovered that of the two of them, it was Stephanie who walked through life with absolute surety of his path.  It was Stephanie who knew how to meet the cruel whispers of the Viennese with a dismissive smile and then continue forward as though he had never heard them at all.

He never would have expected it of him.  And until he had seen such confidence in Gottlieb Stephanie, Salieri had never noticed that he himself possessed so little of it.

"I've been here several times now," Salieri began; Stephanie's smile widened ever so slightly, and Salieri felt the corner of his own mouth turn upward despite himself.  "Every time I've called on you, I've found you working.  And while I lie here entertaining your cat, you return to your work."

"I'm sorry, Antonio-" Stephanie started to say, but he broke off when Salieri shook his head.  The librettist put down his quill and clasped his hands, visibly swallowing back the rest of the apology and forcing himself to wait.

Salieri furrowed his brow, his gaze traveling over Stephanie's prematurely-careworn face.  In those rare moments when he wasn't smiling, when his eyes weren't sparkling, Salieri could see the truth of a man who had had his family and his country stripped away in the Seven Years' War.  A man who wouldn't let himself fall asleep with someone else in the room lest he awake screaming from nightmares of battlefields, of merciless Austrian soldiers, of irons around his wrists.  He had told Salieri about the dreams in that fluttery, dismissive voice of his, beaming all the while, but Salieri had seen the shadow in his eyes even as he tried to laugh it all away.

"I only wondered," said Salieri, glancing at the parchment that lay before Stephanie and at his ink-spattered hands, "why you take so little of your work to the court.  Ever since die Entführung aus-"

"Antonio!"

Salieri did not catch his grin in time.  "Ever since _Il Seraglio_ ," he said again, in his native Italian this time, and when Stephanie made that contended humming sound Salieri felt himself flush.  "I- I only wanted to know why you write for the public theater.  I mean, you've written for- for Mozart," he gritted.  Here in Stephanie's bedchamber, the name stuck in his throat more than usual.  "After Il Seraglio, you could have done everything you've ever wanted."

With a significant look at the court composer who was lying naked in his bed, Stephanie merely said, "Maybe I am doing everything I've ever wanted."

Salieri huffed, tugging the scratchy sheet up to his waist and regarding Stephanie irritably.  "I hope you don't expect me to believe that you mean me."

"Why not?" Stephanie teased. 

Salieri answered with a groan.  They were good together here in the privacy of Stephanie's home, but the moment Salieri's cravat was tightened again, the moment Stephanie's easy smile became a nervous grin, the connection always seemed to break.  They both knew better than to expect anything more than what they found in each other here, when they could be together like this.

"I don't expect someone like you to be able to understand," Stephanie said. 

Salieri raised his eyebrows, but they both knew that there had been no malice in the words.  "Someone like me?"

"Oh, you know!" Stephanie sighed.  "You're- you're all rules and principles and morals!  Your music is so good precisely because it is so orderly!  When you look at the Austrian empire, you see the emperor himself at the top and the rest of the world cowering beneath the heel of his boot.  So of course you don't understand why I don't want to keep writing for him."

"But there hasn't been a court librettist in nearly a year," Salieri protested.  "You're a poet, Gottlieb, no matter what they say about you.  A word to the emperor, and I could see to it-"

"Don't," Stephanie said firmly, his jaw set.

"But-"

Stephanie shook his head.  "You see?  You don't understand."

"Then explain it to me!"

Stephanie heaved a deep sigh, running his ink-spattered hands through his loose hair.  "When I write for the emperor," he said, choosing his words with care, "only those he deems worthy are given the chance to hear my work.  With Il Seraglio... the theater was full of noblemen and courtiers and- and soldiers."

Understanding broke over Salieri all at once; he pushed himself up and swung his legs over the side of the bed.  The cat's unending purr turned into a grunt of disapproval when the blankets beneath it shifted, but Stephanie did not lift his gaze from the worn floorboards.  "I'm sorry," Salieri murmured.  "I didn't realize."

The silence between them stretched on for another beat, longer than it ever would have lasted if the two of them were anywhere but here.  At the palace, Salieri would have bowed and mumbled some excuse for hurrying away; Stephanie would have let out one of those uncomfortable giggles and changed the subject.  But in Stephanie's home, neither of them seemed to mind silence.

Salieri's eyes drifted to the page on Stephanie's desk again, trying to pick out any recognizable words from his cramped writing.  "Is it German again?" he asked.

And just like that, the light was rekindled in Stephanie's eyes.  "German, yes!  This opera will be for the common man!" he chirped.  "You know, court composer, that art shouldn't be locked away by the rich and powerful when the people who run shops and clean floors all day are the ones who need it the most."

For some reason, Salieri felt a touch of warmth in his chest at the notion; the edges of his mouth tightened into another smile.  "If the common people of Vienna need your art," he asked, "then which of your gifts do the emperor's toadies like myself need?"

The fire in Stephanie's gaze changed from bright to hot.  He put down his quill again and crossed the room in one stride.  "I'm glad you asked," he said, cupping Salieri's face in his hands and grinning down at him as he slipped into his lap.  "After all, I may not wish to offer my services to the emperor, but I am always happy to receive the court composer."

Salieri ran his hands up the outsides of Stephanie's thighs and pulled his hips closer as Stephanie guided him into a kiss.  Stephanie's touch was comfortable and soft as ever, his fingers fluttering impatiently over Salieri's skin, but this time, more than ever before, Salieri could taste the fire that burned inside him.

He was Salieri's perfect opposite, like the reverse end of a magnet.  While Stephanie wrote for the commoners of today, Salieri had always composed for the kings of tomorrow.  But for another half-hour as night settled over Vienna, their differences were buried in the heat of the other's skin, in the sounds of labored breathing and careless groans.

It was nearly midnight when Stephanie walked with Salieri as far as the door, his brown hair falling into his eyes and a lazy smile on his face.  Salieri knew that Stephanie did not expect him to ask to stay.  He knew that Stephanie did not want him to.  Their lips met once more as Salieri's fingers hovered over the latch; then Stephanie slipped his hands up the length of Salieri's chest and tugged his cravat into place.  And when the door was opened the rest of the world poured in around them, and Salieri took his leave.

**Author's Note:**

> Jo/yewgrove thank you so much for inventing the concept of Stephieri and I hope you had a magical birthgay. Also the cat's name is Ostinato.


End file.
